


When The Blossoms Fall

by straightforwardly



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, sibling bonds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 15:19:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16558232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straightforwardly/pseuds/straightforwardly
Summary: The fall of Chon’sin, from beginning to end.





	When The Blossoms Fall

**Author's Note:**

> I originally started this back in May 2017, when I claimed the following prompt from fe_fest on dreamwidth:
>
>> Say'ri & Yen'fay - "You don't know how far I'd go for your sake."
> 
>   
> I (obviously) didn’t finish it in time, but this story never left me. It’s probably one of the WIPs that haunted me the most, which is saying something, considering how many of them I have. I’ve spent so much time thinking about this one, and I always knew that I wanted to finish it, but it took until now for that to finally happen. I did quite a bit of worldbuilding for this one, both in regards to Chon’sin and for its ruling family, though much of it didn’t end up in the final story. I think I’d like to play around with some of those ideas again, someday.
> 
> The title was taken from one of the songs on the Hakuouki: Demon of the Fleeting Blossom soundtrack.

Outdoors, the cherry blossoms bloomed, their sweet scent wafting through the half-opened door. Birds sang their springtime songs, and soft, clear sunlight drifted through the gaps between the trees, leaving speckled patterns on the ground. From the distance came the sharp, thin sound of a sword slicing through the air. Yen’fay knew it to be their noble mother, practicing her forms in the courtyard.

He sat, seiza-style, just inside the doorway; besides him, Say’ri did the same. Neither spoke, but waited patiently as their noble father, sitting on the opposite side of the room, read the scroll the courier had brought. His father’s expression did not shift as he studied the scroll; Yen’fay could read nothing of what the letter’s contents wrought from his face. 

Yet he was no fool. He had heard the rumors coming from the east the same as anyone, and now came this letter, marked with the self-styled Emperor of Valm’s seal. Yes, he could predict well-enough what would come, and judging by the grim look Say’ri had exchanged with him when their father’s summons had come, so did she. He misliked it, but misliking a thing did not make it untrue.

And so he waited, bracing himself for the blow.

When it came, it came as simply as a butterfly’s sigh. His noble father lowered the scroll, looked first him, then Say’ri in the eyes, and said, “So it is to be war.”

In the courtyard, his mother’s sword whipped through the air.

* * *

Preparations were made quickly. They could ill-afford to linger: all knew of how Walhart’s army moved as swift and terrible as a crashing tide. Within days the forces were gathered and the supply lines arranged, their father overseeing every step with a keen eye. Their mother disappeared for a full day, and when she reappeared, she was dressed in full battle armor, her hair still wet from the spray of the sacred waterfalls. 

Say’ri caught Yen’fay along the blossom-strewn path, her mouth slanted into a troubled frown. “The capitol will be left to you,” she said without preamble. This was not new information; they had both known it, from the moment their father had made his pronouncement. “I do not like the words I hear of this Walhart’s might. Our city is not unguarded by any means, yet I would take the time to strengthen our defenses further.”

“Our minds are as one,” said Yen’fay. “I have already asked for the plans for the city’s defense to be sent to me.”

Say’ri’s frown shifted to a smile; she said, “It was foolish of me to think you had not realized it yourself.”

Yen’fay thought of correcting her—his sister was no fool—but there was no self-reprimand in her voice, only faint strains of fond admiration. It made for a familiar sound and hearkened him back to the quiet child she had been, the child who had tagged at his heels like a shadow. Then too, had she spoken to him thus. 

So it was that when their noble father carved out the time for a private farewell, he found them in Yen’fay’s quarters with maps of the city and surrounding area strewn over every flat surface, their heads bent together in conference. He spoke with them but briefly, but when he left, he touched both their shoulders with a brief, approving clasp.

The bulk of the army gathered outside the city with the next day’s rising sun, and within the walls gathered the people, both common and noble, civilian and guard. The gates of the city stood in-between, and there at the gates stood Yen’fay with his sister, father, and mother. 

There, before the eyes of all their people, did his noble father entrust their care to him. Yen’fay bowed his head in acceptance of his solemn duty. 

To their mother Say’ri made her own oaths: to defend the people, to defend the Voice of Naga, to defend Chon’sin itself. She said the words with pride, a fierce look upon her mien. ‘Twas not the first time she had made such an oath, as it had not been the first time he had made his own, yet Yen’fay felt both his own pride and a bitter ache as he watched her.

Then, together, they watched the army of Chon’sin stream out from the gates, their noble parents at its head. 

And so, the lord and lady of Chon’sin left for war.

* * *

In the following days, a tension as thick as the muggy heat of summer hovered over the city. In idleness Yen’fay felt it worst of all, and so he filled his hours from sunrise to sunset, overseeing the drilling of the guards and the portion of the army left to him, checking the progress of the preparations for the city’s defense, walking the perimeter, poring over the maps and the plans which they had made. 

Only at the evening meal did Yen’fay allow himself time to breathe, and that only for Say’ri’s sake, for she pushed herself no less than he. She spent the days with her sword in hand, training with the soldiers and training herself. She would not allow herself to rest so long as he did not, and Yen’fay refused to watch exhaustion carve itself into her eyes.

Even as they dined, the war did not leave them: as they ate, they spoke of little else other than their progress for the day. But Say’ri sat, and Say’ri ate and drank, and she allowed some of the tension to slip from her shoulders. Yen’fay was satisfied.

One evening, she broke from this pattern. She said, “Do you recall the story of Yin'ji?”

He smiled. “How could I forget? As a child, you never tired of hearing it. I believe I could recite it even now, so often did you beg to hear it told.”

“Ah—yes.” Say’ri drew back, pink tinging her cheeks. “That I did. I wonder that you never lost your patience, or insist on another tale. It must have grown unspeakably dull for you.”

Yen’fay shook his head. “How could it, when it brought you such delight?” 

Even now, he could see the way Say’ri’s eyes had shone as she listened to the battles Yin'ji had fought and the trials she had overcome. Say’ri had been a solemn child, but she had loved all the hero tales without reserve, and the tale of Yin'ji most of all. 

Say’ri softened, and she too smiled. “She was a great warrior—how could I not revere her? Only you did I admire more.” 

“Heavy praise, for the child I was,” said Yen’fay. “Even now, I do not recall ever defeating an ogre.”

“I’ve no doubt you could, were you ever to see one,” said Say’ri swiftly. “But that is not what I meant. I admired you more, but ‘twas of a different kind of admiration. I admired you as one who wished to prove herself worthy to fight at your side; I revered Yin’ji as one who wished to become her.” A pause. In a softer voice, she added, “I have been thinking of her often, in these dark days.”

It was then Yen’fay remembered just how the tale had ended: Yin'ji had delivered Chon’sin from those who would make her land their own, and Yin'ji had died. 

A cold fear began to make its home in his chest.

* * *

News of Walhart’s advance came with the midday sun. The messenger came half-dead with exhaustion, so hard had he pushed himself to arrive in time, and the message he bore was bleaker than any they had imagined. 

Chon’sin’s army had been broken and scattered. Walhart had struck their mother down in a single blow; their father had also perished upon the field of battle. Worse yet, the Valmese army was fast approaching: the messenger thought it mere hours before they would arrive at the gates of the capitol. 

There would be no time to mourn.

* * *

When Walhart’s army came, it crashed upon the city like a storm. Steel clashed like lightning and the air went thick, the clash of weapons and the cries of the dying and injured echoing like thunder. The city groaned under the weight of the fighting. Walhart and his soldiers did not relent for a moment; even when night fell, they continued to fight on under the light of the three-quarters moon and into the early hours of the morning. 

Yen’fay slew his opponent and stepped back, taking measure of the battlefield. Exhaustion weighed on him, but there would be no room for rest. Everywhere he looked, his people were falling back under the weight of the Valmese onslaught. Worst of all was the trail of where Walhart had been. He had not yet seen the man himself, but he could trace his path by the swathes of carnage left behind. Chon’sin’s people fought, and they fought well, but it seemed there was no denying what the final result would be. 

“Yen’fay!”

Say’ri voice rang out across the battlefield, and despite the bleakness of the situation Yen’fay found his heart lifting at the sound. He turned.

She approached him, surrounded by a small core of those whom he recognized as some of their most loyal retainers. One man supported her as she walked, and her hand clutched at her side, blood seeping between her fingers. 

His relief turned to ash.

“These Valmese dogs fight well!” said Say’ri with a grimace when she reached him, noticing where his gaze tended. “‘Twas a wyvern rider’s spear, and I had no elixirs left.”

“Clerics?”

Say’ri looked yet more grim. “I saw none upon my way to you.”

What little hope remained for Chon’sin shrank still further. Yen’fay made to speak—matters could not continue on in this way—but in that same moment, a boom like thunder drew their attention. Both turned.

A mountain rode across the field, clad in crimson, the dead and dying falling behind in his wake. His face was grim; the hooves of his steed, as massive as its rider, shook the earth with every step. 

He bore no sigil, announced no name, but Yen’fay knew him to be Walhart. He could be no other. 

They hadn’t much time. Walhart would soon be there. 

A glance at Say’ri told him she knew as well. Her eyes blazed as she looked upon their mother’s killer. She shifted her stance, and he knew: she intended to fight.

A memory from their childhood struck him, of the day when his mother had placed his first wooden practice sword in his hands. He’d been proud and had worked hard as she’d showed him the beginner’s forms. Hours later, when his lessons had finished and their mother had left, he’d taken that wooden sword out from the practice hall and brought it to Say’ri—it had been he who’d put her first sword into her hands. He’d been sweat-soaked and exhausted, and she solemn-eyed and fascinated, as he’d showed her the little he’d learned.

She’d been still too young for proper learning, but she hadn’t cared. Even now, he could still see her determined frown as she’d tried to echo his movements, though her small fists could scarcely hold the sword in her grasp. 

She was a proper warrior now, strong and fierce; there was no other he’d rather have fight at his side. But their mother had been strong too, and just as fierce, and Walhart had cut her down as easily as breathing.

He said: “You must go.”

Say’ri’s eyes went wide. “Yen’fay!” She pushed aside the man supporting her and staggered forward, her face white with strain. She protested, “You cannot ask me to abandon our people—to run, like a coward!” 

“A tactical retreat is no cowardice,” said one of the women who had come with her.

“The day is lost,” said Yen’fay, agreeing. “You can see that as well as I. But we needn’t lose the war over a single battle. Someone must remain to defend the Voice of Naga.”

Nothing could have been better calculated to break the spine of her protest. Yen’fay had spoken no untruths, but still the words tasted as bitter as lies on his tongue. Had he spoken what he felt, had he said, _I want you safe_ , she would never have listened. He knew his sister and her honor too well. 

Say’ri’s struggle was writ upon her. She grasped his arm, searching his face. “And what of you?”

They had but moments. 

“I will join you,” he said. “If I can. Now go. Quickly.”

She understood. A pained look flashed across her face, and she drew in a long breath. But her parting words came out calm and strong. “May your sword-arm be strong, and may the gods always stand beside you.” 

She squeezed his arm, briefly—and then she was gone. Yen’fay did not allow himself to watch.

* * *

Walhart came for him. Mountain, Yen’fay had named him, and mountain he was, unmovable. The first blow came with the force of a boulder falling from a great height; Yen’fay staggered. A second blow, as powerful as the first, and he fell. 

Each breath Yen’fay took tore at his lungs like daggers as he lay there upon the ground. His blood-soaked fingers could scarcely grasp the hilt of his sword, and he knew, he _knew_ beyond a shred of doubt that he would not survive Walhart’s next blow.

Still. Using what little strength he had left, he forced himself back up onto his knees, one hand braced against the ground for balance, and raised his head to look straight into Walhart’s eyes. He would have preferred to die on his feet, but as he could no longer stand—this would have to do. He would die upright, at least, with his sword in hand. 

Walhart’s face was impassive and cold, but buried within his gaze was a kind of acknowledgement as well. Yen’fay hated him, fiercely, for what he had done to his family and his country, but nonetheless he felt that same acknowledgement echo inside him as well. Whatever else he may be, Walhart’s skill in battle was unfeigned. 

Walhart raised his blade. Yen’fay braced himself for death.

“Wait!” A blur of magic announced the new arrival on the field, the nasal tone of his voice halting the motion of Walhart’s blade. Yen’fay instantly misliked the look of him. “We may yet have a use for him.” 

Walhart’s eyes flickered in the other man’s direction. “Explain yourself, Excellus.”

“This boy—” Excellus nodded in Yen’fay’s direction. “—is the heir to this country. What quicker way is there to make Chon’sin heed your word than to make him kneel to you as one of your generals?” His lips curved up into a smirk. “Well. Kneel more than he already has, that is.”

“Hm,” said Walhart, considering. He lowered his blade. “Never have I known someone to survive more than two attacks at my hand. He certainly would not be a hindrance to my army. Yet what makes you think that he would be willing to agree to this? He does not seem to be _your_ sort, Excellus, unless I have misjudged him.” He turned back to Yen’fay. “Tell me. Have I judged you correctly? Or will you join me?”

Kneel to Walhart? Join the man who had slain his parents and rampaged through his country? Trade his honor for his life? Turn his back on all that Chon’sin stood for, turn on the Voice of Naga, on his ancestors, his family, Say’ri? 

Yen’fay had thought that he had not the strength to stand, but revulsion and outrage poured through his veins, giving him the energy he needed to pick himself off his knees. He swayed; his sword hung loosely from his grasp, the tip scraping the earth, but he stood on his own two feet.

“I’d rather die here,” said Yen’fay lowly.

“A pity,” said Walhart. “And yet, if you had betrayed your ideals so easily, I would have thought less of you.” Again, he raised his blade.

Excellus broke in. 

“Ah-ah-ah! Don’t be so quick to refuse. There is your sister to think about, after all.” Yen’fay’s gaze snapped back to him, and something in his expression must have amused him, for Excellus laughed. “Oh, yes! Don’t think I didn’t do my research. I know all about both you and your sister. Your devotion to her is touching, very touching indeed…”

Walhart broke in. “Get to the point.”

“Of course, of course! My suggestion is this: Yen’fay accepts your offer, serves you loyally and fully—and in return, his sister would be allowed to live.” Again, Excellus laughed. “Yes! I believe that would be a _very_ generous offer. After all: my spies tell me your sister is persistent, bull-headed, and absolutely dedicated to her ridiculous notions of honor. She’ll never stop fighting the empire, will she? Not until her body lies broken on the battlefield!”

In that moment, as Excellus’ laughter echoed gleefully throughout the battlefield, Yen’fay’s disgust for him knew no end. A part of him wanted nothing more than to use the last of his strength to cut him down where he stood. And yet. The picture his words painted stood out stark in his mind. Say’ri, bloodied and broken, her face corpse-white… it was far too easy to picture. 

_“You cannot ask me to abandon our people—to run, like a coward!”_

_“I revered Yin’ji as one who wished to become her. I have been thinking of her often, in these dark days.”_

She would never give up. His death would serve only as fuel for her determination. Excellus, disgusting as he was, spoke truly: Say’ri would fight Valm until she, too, joined Yen’fay and the rest of their ancestors in the grave. 

Walhart said, “An acceptable bargain. Will you agree to this one, I wonder?”

When he was a child, it was said that were it not for the color of their hair, he and Say’ri would have been as indistinguishable as two hares running side by side. As children they had done all things together, from the moment Say’ri had taken her first, tottering steps. That had not changed as they had grown to adulthood. What he did, so did Say’ri. So had it been with swordplay. So would it be in this, were he to die for Chon’sin.

Yen’fay had loved his parents as any dutiful son would, and then more. He loved Chon’sin too, and a part of him grieved at the thought of allowing it to be subjugated to another. But Say’ri had always been _his_ : his shadow, his pupil, his sister. If it meant protecting her—

A world without his parents was staggering: one without Say’ri, unimaginable. 

In the end, it was no decision at all. Even if it meant abandoning Chon’sin, even if it meant living as a traitor and tainting her every memory of him—Say’ri would live. 

Yen’fay placed his sword upon the bare earth at Walhart’s feet.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the “two hares running side by side” line was an allusion to The Ballad of Mulan. The two stories have little in common, but I found that line in particular to be fitting.


End file.
